good time

I sat down with a book and a hot cup of coffee one afternoon last week.  I felt guilty for a minute.  But I knew I only had a few minutes, so I stopped, because why waste them that way.  I realized recently that I don’t find myself jealous of other people’s things.  Not their figures, not their fortunes.  But I am envious of their time, mostly the way they spend it on themselves.  The rate at which other women seem to finish novels, the way they treat themselves to a massage or a manicure, the way they sit at the coffee shop sipping slowly, the way they go bra shopping all by themselves.

The only way to fix that is to give myself more time.  A few minutes under a quilt in the middle of the afternoon is a good start.  I posted an insta-picture of my indulgence, and then worried whether people might think I got regular, luxurious breaks, that someone might conclude the stay-at-home mom gig was easier than they'd already assumed.  But that’s another thing I’ve come to better understand: most of us who tear each other up in the working versus “not working” war do it because we’re a little torn up inside ourselves.

I went to Chicago this weekend, under the guise of a book tour the trip was really just an excuse to spend time with good friends.  It was a whirl through the windy city, where conversation poured with coffee in the morning and with cocktails late at night.  We shopped, we slept, we gossiped, we gorged.  It was indulgent, a gift of good time for me.

I sometimes wonder if it is just me, or if there are other women who figure out where they are supposed to be by going nowhere. ― Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper